Orange Car with Stripes

By "Tom" "Lichtenberg"

On a dare, Gian Carlo Spallanzini set out to discover the deepest darkest secret of a person picked at random. He had no idea what he was getting into. Even a fat, bearded know-it-all ought to know better than to leap before you look. Add a crystal ball, a foul-mouthed parrot, and a cranky atheist talk show host and you'll never guess the outrageous mystery behind the orange car with stripes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: "Tom" "Lichtenberg"
• Release date: Nov 15, 2009
• ISBN: 9781452300184

"Tom" "Lichtenberg"

Author of curiously engaging novellas of the science-fiction-y, post-modern-y, absurdist variety

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Orange Car with Stripes

by Tom Lichtenberg

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 Tom Lichtenberg

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Pink City

Everybody knew this Spallanzini guy, but that's not too surprising. Everyone who lives or works in Pink City pretty much knows everybody else who lives or works there too. It's not really even a city; it's more like a prefabricated community that practically popped out of a kit. There's a Green City too, and a Yellow one and a Blue one. Everything you need is right here. You’ve got your individualized habitat, your cubicle, your coffee shop, golf carts and scooters that take you everywhere you need to go. Most of the people work for the General Corporation, doing whatever it needs them to do. They’re all unspecialized workers, jacks of all trades, masters of none. This way nobody bends the pay scale too far. It's easier that way all around.

Spallanzini was always an outbird. This is what they call those few who work inside but live outside the confines. Inbirds of course are just the reverse. Outside Pink City, things are different - values, priorities, concerns. Most people prefer to belong, and to belong completely. When you’re in you’re in and it’s cozier that way. Outbirds never quite fit in all the way.

As an outbird, Spallanzini had commuted several years without becoming entrenched. He filled his slot. Every institution needs its mascots. He was Professor of Defunct Sciences at The New Harbinger College. Some questioned the utility of instructing students in outdated and discarded scientific theories and techniques, but overall the College decreed that learning how to fail, how to learn from failure, how to improve, how to overcome, was a valid and even instructive exercise. Spallanzini was a perfect fit for the job. He was somewhat overweight. He wore a thick beard. He was exceedingly impressed with his own intelligence. In short, he met the job requirement for a fat, bearded, know-it-all.

The cause of his dismissal was ‘confusion’. They don't like confusion in Pink City. They like their appearances to be non-deceptive. What you see is what you get. The rules are simple: be what you are supposed to be. If you are not that, or cannot be that, or cease to be that, you must be deleted, removed, expelled. It's not too much to ask.

G Spot

Spallanzini played his part for a long time, and he did the job well. There were no complaints. Wherever and whenever the situation called for it, there he was, plugging the gaps. You could catch him on the local talk shows, providing his expert opinion on every possible subject whether he actually knew anything about it or not, or you could attend his lectures, or watch his special presentations online. You could buy his books, bestsellers like 'How To Be You', and 'Leave Your Dreams Alone'. He would take queries online and respond to each and every one, confidently advising people to leave their spouse of twenty years, abandon their child if need be, as long as they remained true to themselves. You do have to be who you are, after all. He took the guesswork out of life's many mysteries, assuring folks for example that there really is no such thing as a G Spot, that alien life forms would likely not speak English, that the stars do not in fact revolve around the Earth. Oddly, these questions and more are asked by every succeeding generation, as if no one had ever learned anything at all. It has to be learned all over again. And it's true that everyone cannot read all the books. A community needs its professional know-it-alls, as long as they're reliable.

At home, life was good for the Spallanzinis. Elaine, the missus, worked diligently as a homemaker, and spent most of her days viewing the Atheist Shopping Network and feathering the nest with their approved non-sectarian products. They had two children; Janelle, twelve, and Marco, nine, who attended the community schools in the small woodsy hamlet of Los Arboles, where the family had lived for many years. Spallanzini commuted the twelve twisty miles in his economy car each weekday. He attended meetings, prepared and delivered lectures, performed his pundit duties, pontificated in public, dispensed advice, corralled his correspondence, and stayed late on campus to extend his wisdom overseas. A picture perfect life, it seems.

The problems all began over dinner one night in late summer. The family's close friend was Thomas Kuntz (pronounced Coonts), homosexual pastor of the Fourth Redemption Church and Professor of Comparable Religions at New Harbinger. It's said that his courses were like a celebrity death match of creeds, pitting one faith against another, issue by issue, with student scorecards, cheerleaders, and uniforms. Kuntz was fond of saying that even though your religion might be stupid, it doesn't mean that you are. In Pink City they appreciated such sentiments. The people are tolerant, but have their prejudices too. Even in the most perfectly agnostic community, such defects can't be helped.

Spallanzini was in a funk, a particularly feisty nihilistic mood. All evening long he'd been cranky and rude. Kuntz had prepared a special lamb feast for the family (in celebration of nothing at all) and was more and more annoyed by his host's unpleasantness. Elaine kept trying